


how to be a carer

by foreverwriting9



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:30:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4876945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverwriting9/pseuds/foreverwriting9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara gets sick and doesn't want the Doctor around. The Doctor takes care of her anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how to be a carer

**Author's Note:**

> For an anon prompt on tumblr that said: CAN YOU WRITE A SUPER FLUFFY WHOUFFALDI FIC WITH A SICK AND GRUMPY CLARA AND A TWELVE THAT TAKES CARE OF HER EVEN WHEN SHE TRIES TO MAKE HIM LEAVE?

He flings open the TARDIS doors, fully expecting to be met with the tranquil warmth of Clara's flat. Instead what he gets is a dimly lit room and a hideous sound caught somewhere between ‘angry lawnmower’ and ‘dying dog.’

“Clara? Clara! Are you being attacked?!” He rushes forward into her room, almost tripping over a pile of clothes and just barely managing to stop himself from sprawling face first onto the floor.

“Go away,” a pile of blankets on her bed demands rather grumpily.

In the darkness of the room he has to squint to make her out. Even then, all he can see are her eyes, narrowed and peeking out from behind what looks to be at least three blankets and a quilt.

“I _said_ ,” she begins, but then loses the rest of her words in a loud coughing fit. Once the coughing finally subsides she adds, “Go away,” but now it just sounds pathetic and drained.

“I thought maybe you were being attacked by some sort of monster,” the Doctor explains, in lieu of actually following her instructions. He pulls out his sonic, the green tip casting a dim glow over the room as he scans her. “You’re not being attacked, are you?”

Clara huffs in annoyance, sneezes, and then finally pushes away her heap of blankets so that she can sit up against her headboard and more properly glare at him. “ _No_. I’m perfectly fine. It’s just a cold.”

“Are you sure? Because some parasitic aliens will use you as a host and for the first week the invasion manifests itself as cold symptoms. But in actuality what they’re doing is eating your brain and preparing your body for complete takeover.”

Now she’s looking at him like maybe _he’s_ the parasite. “Thanks for that.”

He shrugs, then glances down at the sonic’s readout. “Hmm, just a cold,” he mutters, tucking the device away before turning his attention back to her.

“I told you.”

“So you did.”

There’s a beat of silence, another coughing fit from Clara, and then he says, “Do you want some tea?” at the exact moment that she says, “So are you going to leave now?”

The Doctor pulls up short, trying not to look offended, but it’s impossible to miss the way his brow knits together, the way his mouth tightens slightly.

She sighs. “Sorry. Sorry, that was rude. It’s just. You know I’m all right now and I’m really tired and there’s always a thing with you - I just wouldn’t be able to handle that today.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah, you know,” she reaches for a tissue with one hand while gesturing vaguely with the other, “a thing. You’d want to go save a planet or invent a new way to play 3D hopscotch or something.”

“What if I gave you the absence of a thing?”

Clara’s entire face scrunches up while she’s tries to make sense of the logic of his sentence. “What does that even mean?”

He shuffles around a bit, uncomfortable. The pattern of her bedspread has suddenly become completely and utterly fascinating. “What if I...just stayed here today? With you. No extra things, no monsters, cross my hearts.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she says. “I don’t _want_ you to do that. I’m sure there’s somewhere else in the universe you’re needed. Someone else out there probably needs the Doctor right this minute.”

He shakes his head. It’s so simple - has always been so simple - and yet she doesn’t seem to see it. “Clara, _you_ need a doctor.” (There’s honestly only so many ways he can say it before the actual words themselves make their way out of his mouth; every time he looks at her now he hears himself, over and over. _Do you think I care for you so little? Do you think I care for you so little?_

He cares for her so.)

She laughs, but he thinks she also might be crying a little bit. The good crying though, like when he shows her spectacles no human eyes have ever seen before and she remembers how lucky she is to have him. "You know you're not actually a doctor, right?"

  


Basically, he sets out to prove her wrong.

Which is...healthy. So, absolutely healthy.

“Doctor, what are you doing?”

He continues piling pillows onto her couch without even bothering to look up at her. “What does it look like I’m doing? There’s no way you’ll get better any quicker if you’re not comfortable.”

“There’s also no way I’ll get better if you keep me standing here for the rest of the evening.”

Finally, he stills, dropping the pillow in his hands and turning to look at her. She’s a little unsteady on her feet, her cheeks pink, eyes tired. For some reason he likes the bun she’s pulled her hair up into, but it’s undeniably messy and he knows if she were feeling better it wouldn’t look like that at all. “Ah,” he concedes. “Fair point.” He pats the mountain of pillows invitingly. “Take a seat.”

She sighs as she sinks down into all the extra cushioning, and he won’t deny that it makes his stomach do a couple of flips. He did that; he made her happy, content. He’s taking care of her.

“Do you want tea? Or, um, soup?”

Clara hums, eyes closed. Just moving out of her dark bedroom and onto the couch, in the reach of sunlight, seems to have made her feel better already. "Tea. Tea sounds good."

"Okay. Here," he drops the TV remote onto her lap before wandering off toward the kitchen. "Watch some of your mindless programming while I'm gone. Maybe that one where the pudding brains fall down a lot and everyone laughs at their collective lack of motor coordination."

Clara's response is lost to the sound of the air con kicking on, which is just as well because by now he's in the kitchen and doesn't want to have to go back and argue with her about the finer points of quality television.

Her kettle's already sitting out on the counter and after several minutes of digging around through her cabinets, he comes up with a handful of tea bags as well.

He doesn’t really have the patience to wait for the water to boil, so after he fills the kettle and turns on the stove, he pulls out his sonic and flicks lazily through the settings. Once he finds the one he wants, he points at the kettle. Almost immediately, he's rewarded with the telltale sound of bubbling.

"You better not be upgrading anything in there!" Clara yells suddenly from the other room. "I like my kitchen just the way it is."

The Doctor jumps, banging his elbow on the counter and letting out an undignified yelp before yelling back, "Don't be ridiculous, Clara. When have you ever known me to tinker with any of your simple, Earth appliances?"

"I don't know," she says, tone deadpan, "why don't you ask my toaster?"

He whirls around, catches sight of her half-deformed toaster, antenna bent and holographic settings flickering dimly, and frowns. "Oh, right."

"Yeah."

"Shut up."

A couple minutes later, he reappears in front of her, holding a steaming cup of tea and wearing a grim expression.

"Clara, something tragic happened to your kettle."

She flicks off the television, staring at him. "What did you do?"

"Nothing."

She sneezes, suddenly and violently, and grabs a nearby tissue. Somehow with half of her face covered she still manages to glare at him. "You tried to make it better, didn't you?"

The Doctor hands off her tea once she's done blowing her nose and then sighs. "You don't understand, Clara, if I could just make it trap heat more efficiently then you wouldn't have to wait so long - "

Clara waves a hand, stopping him. "Whatever. It was only a matter of time. I needed to go out and buy a new one anyway."

He brightens. "Really?"

"Yeah," she says. Then, wordlessly, she pats the space on the couch next to her.

As soon as he sits down she curls into him, one hand wrapped securely around her mug and the other on his chest, pressing just between his hearts. Unsure what to do with any part of his body now, the Doctor lets an arm drape awkwardly across her shoulders. “Clara?” he asks, although he’s not sure what he means to say after that because then her breath is hot on his neck and he can feel her pulse pounding away in her fingertips. “Clara.”

She’s practically in his lap when he realizes that maybe this was what she needed all along.

“This is nice,” she murmurs drowsily.

“Yeah.” He runs his hand up and down her side, trying to distract her while he fishes his sonic out of his coat pocket. “Yeah, it is.” He finds the setting without even looking and then points the device at her, cringing at how loud the buzzing sounds in her otherwise still apartment.

She huffs out a laugh, startling him. “You’re scanning me again, aren’t you?” she asks, a knowing edge to her voice.

He drops the sonic like it’s burned him, letting his now free hand fall to her waist instead. “No.”

Even though she’s half asleep he can still tell she’s rolling her eyes. “Mhmm,” she hums, scooting impossibly closer and burying her face in his shoulder.


End file.
